


Reichenbach Falls

by BloodyAbattoir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John Watson, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Gun Kink, Gunplay, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty is Alive, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, POV Second Person, Public Blow Jobs, Public Humiliation, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Feels, Spoilers, Unrequited Lust, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: When Sherlock bursts onto the roof, the last thing that he expected was a vulgar order from Moriarty.(Please note that while there is no actual rape in this story, the warning of rape was added for dubiously consented sexual activities. Also, the Sherlock Holmes/John Watson pairing is not solid or established. There isn't really a 'relationship' between the two of them in this story, but it is hinted at/implied a fair bit. )





	

**Author's Note:**

> Once more, it's proven that I can't write anything other than second person point of view to any level.

 

 

After the discourse between yourself and Sherlock Holmes, you'd pulled the gun out of your pants, bringing it to your mouth. As you had just explained to the consulting detective not a moment before, if you were dead, then there would be nobody to call off your pet snipers, which in turn would force him to leap to his death. Your finger hovered over the trigger for a moment, enjoying the look of shock in Sherlock's eyes as he instinctively moved away from you. 

 

Then, a mere heartbeat before you would've shot yourself, a thought skittered across the forefront of your mind, making you take your finger off the trigger for just a moment. Sure, your genius plan was to have Sherlock kill himself to cement his disgrace, or else lose the rare few friends he had. But then again, the man  _was_ a self-proclaimed sociopath. For all you knew, you'd go ahead and off yourself, and Sherlock, being the selfish prick he was, likely would allow his friends to be murdered, simply to save his own skin. 

 

In that situation, nobody aside from the consulting detective would come out ahead. The more you thought about it, the more you came to a realization. You didn't need Sherlock  _dead_ to utterly disgrace him. Indeed, you  _could_ simply ruin his reputation even further. You didn't need to push him into killing himself. You could simply ruin him to the point that he willingly chose to commit suicide. That would be infinitely more satisfying than what you had planned. 

 

You eyed the detective, standing a few feet away from you, and a manic grin spread across your face. You couldn't help but feel that if you were to look into a mirror right there and then, your smile could compete with the Cheshire Cat. "You know, neither of us has to die today." 

 

Despite Sherlock trying to maintain an unreadable expression on his face, you knew from the length of time that you'd toyed with him over the years that you'd sparked his curiosity. Or rather, you'd set that infernal machine that he called a mind back into action. You knew that he'd insist on being clever about this whole thing, but the truth was, you'd gotten tired of Sherlock trying to be clever. You'd grown tired of the constant puzzles. At this point, you'd gladly take something common and crass over some intricate plot. 

 

It was difficult enough to plot the kidnappings, not to mention disguising yourself so well that the girl had panicked on sight of Sherlock, which obviously implicated him as a suspect. But the truth was, that wasn't common knowledge to the general public. Sure, the newspapers had written stories about the disgrace that was Sherlock Holmes. The issue was that you'd already stated that they were pure fairy tales.

 

All it would take was one person who had even one-tenth the brain that Sherlock did to start asking the right questions, which would make the newspaper stories fall flat. Worse yet, all it would take is one blundering fool in law enforcement to bungle some piece of evidence, and show that Sherlock Holmes was indeed a genius, and innocent of all that he had been accused of. Above all, if Sherlock committed suicide because of this, then it would open the door to fans, the few who he had left, immortalizing him as a martyr.

 

 

"You may wonder why the change in heart. A good part of it is because I spent so long, and put so much effort into disgracing you. If you were to kill yourself because of it, some little fan club might decide to make you into a martyr." You said, idly turning the gun over in your hand, before continuing on "That would completely destroy all that work I did, which wouldn't do at all." 

 

Still, Sherlock said nothing. It was fascinating, truly. For all the witty comments and sarcastic wisecracks that seemed to be the detective's natural-born language, he could utter not a single word. You continued on as if this were a two-sided conversation. "Now, if I were to disgrace you even further, if such a thing is possible, when you eventually kill yourself, you won't be adored by anyone. Everyone in London will know you, and they will hate you." 

 

You took a small step towards the detective, gun still held in your hand. You saw his light eyes flick toward it, likely thinking that you were going to shoot him. "I'm not going to waste my time, or yours, with another elaborate plot. We've already established that I've beaten you, it's such a moot point. Instead, you're going to finally put your mouth to use with something other than sarcastic remarks, right here, on this roof, in front of everyone. Then, when it's done, you can go."

 

You saw the look of disgust briefly as it crossed his face, before the practiced mask once more descended across his features. "And you'll call off your snipers?" 

 

"Sure, since I'm feeling generous." You reply. 

 

Sherlock stares at you, as if he isn't certain whether to believe you or not. 

 

You throw a glance over the side of the ledge. It's fairly short, so unless Sherlock was going to lay flat on his back, it wouldn't work very well to hide much, if any, of your future actions. The ground below is slowly filling up with people going about their daily lives. Looking a bit closer, you see a man that is undoubtedly Doctor Watson. Even from this distance, the way he carries himself stands out like a sore thumb. You briefly wonder how long he had been standing there, before deciding that it doesn't matter. He's about to see the best part.

 

"Now, you'll get on your knees and open your mouth." You address the detective, who was still standing. If he's noticed John down on the ground, he's given you no indication. You decide that the doctor may as well get a show, if he's going to stand and stare at the two of you. 

 

Slowly, Sherlock lowers himself to his knees, glaring at you with the utmost contempt. You couldn't help but feel that if you weren't the one with the gun, he would've already lunged at you. You close the distance between the two of you, your stomach mere inches away from his face. To the surprise of the detective, you didn't reach for your trousers. Instead, you lifted the gun up, barrel pointing straight at the taller man, as opposed to pointing at the ground as it had been just a minute ago. You swear that you can see a flicker of fear cross his face. You know that he's thinking this is how it's going to end, that you've gone back on your word. 

 

"Since I'm just a little concerned that you'll try to bite me, I figured that I should give you a little test run." You tell him. He looks at you, not quite comprehending. 

 

"Open." You order. His mouth opens the slightest bit, and you know that this is easily one of the worst blows that you could have dealt his ego. "Wider."

 

No sooner than Sherlock has opened his mouth properly, you slip the barrel of the gun between his lips, your finger safely outside of the trigger guard. "Now, you're going to treat this like it was attached to your precious doctor. Show me what you can do with your mouth." 

 

Continuing to glare up at you, the detective complies, slowly beginning to move his head back and forth, the barrel of the gun disappearing into his mouth, only to reappear, shiny from being covered in saliva. You knew that he was tasting the grease and gunpowder that was undoubtedly on the end of the weapon, based off the micro-expressions that were crossing his face, staying for less than a handful of seconds before disappearing again. You knew that the taste was disgusting, but then again, you weren't exactly concerned with his comfort right now. 

 

Truth be told, you'd wanted to have the great Sherlock Holmes reduced to this for quite some time now. It started off as a fleeting thought when you were bored, how you'd enjoy the sight of the consulting detective on his knees in front of you. But from there, it spiraled out a bit further, and when you were unaware, it grew a life of its own over time, until this became your favourite go-to fantasy on nights spent alone. 

 

He refused to meet your gaze, focusing instead on the hand that held the weapon that could easily bring an end to his miserable little existence. A drop of saliva made its way down his chin, before it dripped off onto the roof below you. This was beyond perfect, and if given the chance, the only thing you'd change was to ensure that a certain part of your anatomy, instead of the gun, was the object that the detective was pleasuring.

 

You were dragged out of your thoughts by the sound of Sherlock's teeth clicking against the metal in his mouth.

 

"That won't do at all!" You chided him, you finger wandering dangerously close to the trigger. He faltered for a moment, before continuing on. You knew that at this point, his jaw must have been aching from having to open his mouth so wide. On one hand, you didn't care, but on the other hand, you knew that if you wore him out too quickly, the second part of today's entertainment wouldn't go as swimmingly as you'd hoped it would. Bearing this in mind, you turned the gun sideways so that the detective wouldn't have to strain himself quite as hard. 

 

"You're a natural at this. Tell me, do you do this for the good doctor when you're not out chasing after me?" You taunted. 

 

If looks could kill, you would've been a steaming pile of ashes in a heartbeat from the look that the detective shot you.

 

As much as you hated to look away from the sight in front of you, you spared a glance down to the street. Watson was still down there, and if you weren't mistaken, he certainly looked furious. You knew that the minute you pulled the gun out of Sherlock's mouth, he'd likely be across the street and up the stairs nearly immediately. Until then, he'd have to enjoy the show, along with the other passerby. Yes, as you'd hoped, some of the pedestrians had stopped in their paths, and were staring at the indecent show above them. After another few minutes, the only reputation that the consulting detective would have was that of a queer sicko, thanks to the crowd of onlookers that were being drawn. 

 

"That's enough of that." You said after a minute, pulling the gun out of the detective's mouth. The metal was covered in saliva and shined under the sunlight. The moment that the barrel was out of his mouth, Sherlock seemed to heave a sigh of relief, albeit one that he tried his best to disguise.

 

A grin crossed your face. "You actually think that I'm done with you? Oh no, no, no, Sherlock. I'm not nearly done with you. You've proven to me that you're ordinary, so you may as well service me like a common,  _ordinary_ whore. Because face it, without your brain, the only thing you have going for you is your looks."

 

After a moment of staring at you, as if you'd just spouted gibberish instead of an insult, the detective reached for the fly of your trousers. As his hands went to the waistband of your undergarments, you brought the gun up to the side of his head. "If you even  _think_ of biting me, that will be the last thought you have. Understood?" 

 

He nodded at you, even though the look on his face said that he was in no way happy about having to do this.  Less than a moment later, his lips wrapped around you, and your head fell back in ecstasy. This was even better than you'd ever imagined it would be, and finally, you could enjoy this. One hand went to absently tangle in Sherlock's curls, pulling him closer to you. Your eyes closed as he finally put his tongue to work doing something other than insulting you. 

 

Due to this, you didn't see when John took off, sprinting across the street and into the hospital down below. 

 

You let out a groan, and pushed yourself further down the detective's throat, feeling him gag around you, trying to pull away. Somewhere along the line of you chasing after your orgasm, the gun fell from your hand and hit the rooftop with a clatter. You didn't give a damn about it right now, or about the crowd that had formed on the street below the building, or about the doctor who was currently sprinting his way up the stairs toward the roof. You didn't even notice the man in another building who was recording you. All you cared about right now was your own pleasure, and the fact that Sherlock fucking Holmes, the self-proclaimed sociopath, was the one providing it to you. 

 

Lost in your own thoughts, you almost didn't hear the door that led onto the roof being opened with such force that it slammed against the wall, and by the time that your brain registered what was happening, Sherlock's guard dog was on you, ripping you away from him. He swung a punch, hitting you squarely in the jaw, before drawing his arm back again. You cringed, bracing for another strike, only to crack open your eye and see that Sherlock had grabbed onto the doctor's arm, preventing him from delivering the blow. 

 

 

 

Sure, Watson had seen what you were doing, and even if he weren't able to hear what was going on, it was likely that he could at least surmise that Sherlock hadn't done such vulgar acts without at least a little prompting. But the rest of the crowd below wouldn't understand, because they hadn't been there watching since the start. They didn't know the detective as intimately as the doctor did.

 

Sherlock's reputation was most certainly ruined.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, the man who had been recording the entire episode from start to finish pulled out his mobile and dialed a number. It rang once, before being picked up. After a moment, the man said, "Mr. Holmes? I have the footage of your brother with James Moriarty, as per your request."

 

"Wonderful."

 

* * *

 

On the rooftop, Sherlock's mobile buzzed, announcing the arrival of a new text message. 

 

_This is the last time you disgrace this family. -MH_

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just realized that I haven't written in over 2 years. Funny how life changes.


End file.
